Sunday, December 14, 2008

My dark and gritty side...

Being called a bitch was the least of her concerns. She had been called worse by better men than the corpses left in the alley. Snorting, she kicked dirt into their shattered, bloody faces.

Hours would be wasted identifying the Pinks’ remains. Sariah made sure of that. She’d smashed their teeth into their braincases, and chunks of their flesh soured in her stomach. Severed fingertips jostled against each other in the churning acid of her guts. Digested fingerprints were impossible to read. Dental records weren't much good on gum lines. DNA tests were costly and time consuming.

Bastards.

They hurled vulgarities on the one night she couldn’t control the beast raging in her blood. The name they threw at her did not offend--in truth, they were tragically right--she was a bitch. It was the tone of their taunts, the rude gestures, the puffed chests and bulging jeans. Her blood surged, pounding against her eardrums. And, with the full moon mocking her, Sariah could not tolerate the offensive verbal swagger, or the eager musk hanging heavy in the air.

She turned on her heel, lips parted and ready to match their sarcasm. Then, the tattooed blonde grabbed his crotch, she lost her restraint on the killer she contained. Her transformation was sudden and painful; one moment human, the next raging beast. Sariah was a werewolf, muzzle curled, teeth bared and blood pumping with rage.

She growled, low and long, her hackles up from the ridge of her skull, down her spine to her ass. Even her tail bristled. Her nostrils flared. The men, leaned up against a building, had no where to run. She launched from her bunched hindquarters and slammed into them with an audible crush of concrete and bone. Pavement churned beneath her heels as she ravaged the rudeness out of them--along with their lives.

Even in her altered state, Sariah had enough presence of mind to disguise her crime. She crushed their skulls with bashing blows of her back feet, then snapped off their fingertips. The murders were crimes of passion, desecrating the corpses was intentional.

She shook her head to clear the tainted images. High pointed ears waggled and blood flew from her snout, spattered the ragged blouse hanging from her neck. She looked down--tawny hide, curved claws, a ripped blouse, barely recognizable now, shoes gone, but the leather skirt still clung to her hips with a savage fit. A dark laugh caught in her throat.